


Case 137: The Adventure Of The Falkland Islander (1896)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [174]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Betrayal, Blackmail, Coming Untouched, Destiel - Freeform, Gay Sex, Islands, Johnlock - Freeform, London, M/M, Newspapers, Politics, Threats, Underwear, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-10 04:08:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17418818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: ֍ Why would Sherlock's irritating lounge-lizard of a brother be interested in some fellow visiting England from a distant minor Imperial possession? Sherlock assumes the worst (as it is Bacchus he is all too predictably right) while John finds a walk in the park far from a walk in the park.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bookworm4ever81](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookworm4ever81/gifts).



_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

Although I usually shun history as the driest of dry subjects, the historical background of what was involved here proved to play a major role in the actions of the actors in this small drama. Besides John has written it all up for me and he is always so happy when I praise him for his hard work. Sometimes I even wear that ghastly deer-stalker that I bought just because it was in the illustrations of his writings, and he loves it when I take him wearing just that.... ahem, back to the story.

The Falkland Islands are two fair-sized islands, the larger of which is East Falkland at some 2,500 square miles in area (about the size of Devonshire or the American state of Delaware). It is home to the capital Stanley, often but wrongly called Port Stanley. Then there is nearby West Falkland at 1,750 square miles and a smattering of much smaller islands. The population of this fair-sized area is but a few thousand at most.

The islands lie about three hundred miles from the coast of South America and the country of Argentina which lays claim to them on spurious grounds, presumably to distract their peoples from the rampant misgovernment that so much of their continent is subject to. Great Britain also owns other island groups in the vicinity (all uninhabited), namely South Georgia, the South Sandwich Islands, the South Orkneys and the South Shetlands; the people who chose names for these places do not seem to have been overly blessed with imagination! These islands are all tiny; even if they were all grouped together they would be smaller in area than West Falkland. Seal-hunting is the only business of note that happens in the area although efforts to stablish whaling stations are, John says, ongoing. He is such a mine of information, a mine that I love to delve into when... ahem!

Despite efforts to establish sheep-farming and ship-repair as alternative industries on the main islands they had never been that successful, and their only real use in the past was as a British coaling port for ships rounding Cape Horn. Relations with Argentina had warmed after she had dropped her claim in an 1850 treaty with our Nation and ships could get cheaper coal more easily on the mainland so even this use was denied the Falklanders. One wonders if that was not a political move to render the islands not worth having to London, for several in government had begun to openly ask as to whether they were really worth the effort of maintaining and might not be quietly left to their own devices some way - in other words effectively abandoned as our colony in the Mosquito Coast (in Central America) had so unwisely been.

Until along came Mr. Pheidippides Jones.

֍

This case came to our attention through the efficient offices of Miss Charlotta Bradbury, although not perhaps in the way that one might have expected. She called round one day to find me alone in our rooms, and looked around curiously almost as if she expected John to be hiding under one of the chairs.

“He is resting”, I said. “And not for the reasons you are doubtless thinking, my lady!”

“Why, what would those be, kind sir?” she asked with an innocence that I did not believe for one moment.

“He had a call to a lady whose pregnancy he had been attending and whose baby decided to grace this world with its presence some three weeks too early”, he said. “An exhaustive affair but after dithering for nearly two whole days the mite came through it, perhaps better than poor John. He had to take a nap at the new mother's house before coming home, then it was a good meal and straight to bed for him.”

“Hmm, remind me what someone once said about a certain doctor having too much of a mother-hen tendency?” she said smiling.

I shook my head at her impudence.

“May I ask what brings you to 221B this fine day?” I asked. The weather had improved a little since our last case had been resolved but London in winter was still not a place for faint hearts.

“It is a little odd”, she said frowning. “I have not been asked to look into someone.”

I thought for a moment that I had misheard her, but apparently not.

“And you are concerned because you did not get the business?” I asked. She shook her head.

“There are as you know several other information agencies like Middleton's”, she said. “None anywhere as good of course, but some are all right. We do not usually have much to do with them but yesterday the head of one of them, Penny Gaston, asked me if I had at all been requested to look into a gentleman by the name of Mr. Pheidippides Jones.”

The name meant nothing to me except to possibly hint that that gentleman's parents had read too many Greek works. I waited for further illumination.

“He is a representative of the Falkland Islands Company which all but runs that territory for the Empire”, she said. “Penny was concerned because she knows the heads of two of the other organizations and they had both also been asked to make inquiries into the unusually-named gentleman.”

“So? I said. “Someone might just be being thorough.”

She shook her head.

“You do not survive for long in this business if you cannot smell a rat even if the rat is not himself present”, she said. “The description of the person asking was the same in each case, even though they gave a different name each time. I would wager that your oily brother with the slappable face is behind this.”

I saw her point at once.

“And you believe that the fact Bacchus did not send anyone to use the premier agency in such things was because he knew of your friendship with me?” I asked. She nodded.

“It is the sort of slimy thing that he _would_ do”, she said. “I made some initial inquiries myself but thus far I have found out little, although there is of course the obvious.”

“Mr. Jones' travel schedule?” I ventured. She nodded again.

“I know it is summer in the Falkland Isles, but even going up the coasts of Africa and Europe, winter in the North Atlantic is horrible”, she said. “He could have had a much easier journey by waiting just a couple of months. I cannot see what business he has in London that would necessitate such urgency. His company is not in any sort of financial difficulty as far as I can gather.”

“A personal trip?” I suggested.

“That was other thing that was suspicious”, she said. “He has relatives in South Wales and he got off the ship when it called at Plymouth rather than taking it all the way to London.”

“Did he go and visit them?” I asked.

“I do not know”, she admitted, “but given the time that he reached the city I do not think so. If he did it can have been but for an hour, two at most. That seems unlikely after such a long journey.”

“I can name several relatives of mine for whom an hour or two would in itself be far too long”, I said dryly. “My dear mother requires only seconds before she is prone to getting out her latest efforts at fiction, one of which she sent me recently. Would you like to borrow it?”

She gave me such a look! I chuckled at her.

“You believe that this Mr. Jones reasoned his arrival might be noted after Plymouth but before the ship could reach London, and so took a train to evade any attempts to stop himl?”

“Given the homicidal tendencies of some in government these days I fear he may have been right to do just that”, she said. “But why is he here in the first place?”

֍

We discussed the matter some little more but could make neither head nor tale of it, though we both felt that there might be developments soon enough which could show things in a clearer light. Miss Bradbury eventually left and I returned to a fascinating science book on some recent discoveries that John had purchased for me. 

I had been reading for about an hour before I heard the sounds of his awakening at last. I smiled to myself and waited for what I was almost certain would happen next. Sure enough there was a quite inventive profanity which I shall not repeat here save to say that had he said it outside this room it would have had Mrs. Harvelle reaching for her rifle (and likely her daughter reaching for a notebook!). I waited.

After what seemed like an interminable wait but which the grandfather clock in the corner stated to be less than five minutes, John poked his bare shoulders around the door.

“Are you serious?” he demanded. “I mean, really?”

“The best things come in well-wrapped packages”, I said with s smile. “Out you come.”

He was blushing fiercely but obeyed, emerging into the main room. Naked except for the one item of apparel he was wearing. A small black underwear item that, I had been told, was called a 'thong'. It barely concealed his manhood which was clearly determined to test it to the utmost. He looked _mortified!_

(I took a quiet moment to reflect on the fact that if he ever learned that our Cornish ex-fisherman friend Lowen had suggested this to me then I would quite likely be investigating the latter's murder, and even more likely be trying to cover up John's role in it). 

“Delicious!” I said as he walked awkwardly across to his chair. He contrived to go even redder.

“Can I put my clothes back on?” he asked.

“No.”

He looked at me, and I knew when he finally got it from the way he went from red to white.

“I am going to have you in that all day”, I growled, knowing how when I lowered my voice it turned him on even more. “I am going to be able to have my way with you even more quickly, whenever and wherever I so desire. And John, I really, _really_ desire!”

He froze and I knew from the way he went back to red again just what had happened. I smirked.

“Let us see how many times I can make you do that today”, I said happily. “One.”

He whined in terror.

֍

Apparently it was indeed possible to make one specific _homo sapiens_ come five times in a single day without even touching him. And because I loved him so much for giving me the unmitigated pleasure of having his body on display all day, I rewarded him with the apple-pie I had got for him the day before. And the only other price I would have to pay would be the knowing looks from Mrs. Singer as to why her maids had been asked to leave our meals outside and to not clean our rooms that day. 

John's only regret, he said once his ordeal was over, that he had so wrecked the item after our wondrous game that he would be unable to wear it under his ordinary clothes the following day. I smiled as I thought of the eight other thongs in his drawer, ready and waiting. Every colour available including one designed like a Union Jack. Technology was so wonderful at times!

֍


	2. Chapter 2

There was no reason for John to walk any differently as we strode around Regent's Park the following morning. No reason apart from the blue thong he was currently wearing, that was.

We were on our way back to Baker Street when we ran into Miss Bradbury, sporting a virulent light-blue boiler-suit that was drawing looks of disapprobation from many of her fellow promenaders. 

“I hoped to catch you”, she said, looking far too knowingly at John and smiling slightly. “When you get back home you are going to find a visitor. A slappable brother of yours.”

John groaned at that. I could empathize.

“What will he be after this time?” I sighed.

“Our Mr. Jones made himself an appointment at the Argentinian Embassy this morning”, she said. “He is up to something, and your resident pain in the backside will want to know what.”

“Do you know?” I asked.

“I have suspicions”, she said, “but when it comes to governments I have to get my facts one hundred per cent right before I start throwing around accusations. As we both know from more than one of your cases, people who upset those in power do not tend to do well.”

“The government would not dare to take you on?” I asked, shocked.

“Some might be stupid enough”, she said, shrugging her shoulders as if facing the possibility of state-sponsored murder was all part of the job. “They would of course regret it – I have made arrangements to make sure of that – but I would rather that they were never tested. Not that that sort of thing has changed much since that monster King Henry the Eighth.”

I was surprised. I had thought Miss Bradbury shared my general disinterest in history except when it was relevant to an inquiry.

“You know”, she said. “That nursery rhyme about his wives and his eating habits... what was it? Oh yes. Sing a.... _Thong_ Of Sixpence!†”

She walked off chuckling. Poor John looked mortified!

“I think a coffee and a slice of pie at our local restaurant before we face my irritating sibling”, I suggested.

When he looked at me with such gratitude... well..... no, we were in a Royal Park and now was neither the time nor the place for such things.

Later, definitely!

֍

Walking back to the house with a pie-filled doctor (I had allowed him to bring that third slice with him after all he had been through lately) I wondered if even my idiotic brother would really be foolish enough to try anything to remove Mr. Pheidippides Jones. Not that he would not want to if the man was somehow 'in the way', but after the recent family upheavals Mother had made patently clear that if either he, Mycroft or Ranulph made one more step out of line then she would be at best Bloody Furious or, as our sister Anna called it, a Level Nine. It might even go higher up the scale.

On a totally unrelated issue, I wondered about Bacchus' life insurance.

“I do not see what you want of me in this matter”, I said at last after my brother had spent the best part of ten minutes saying nothing while I had drank my coffee and John had devoured his pie. The way he always looked so mournfully into the empty bag at times like this was so damn cute that I wanted to....

_Later!_

“The fellow Jones is up to something!” Bacchus scowled. “I want you to find out what.”

“And what can I do about it even if he is 'up to something'?” I asked.

“Leave that to the experts”, he said primly.

“Friesland!” John coughed into his hand. Bacchus scowled at him.

“That was not _my_ doing”, he said curtly. 

“Mr. Jones probably thinks you want to sell his beloved islands to Argentina!” John scoffed.

“Like we could do that!” Bacchus sniffed.

I narrowed my eyes at him. I had used sophistry too many times myself not to be able to spot it being used by someone else. I could see Bacchus looking ever so slightly alarmed at my look but I decided to let it pass. For now.

“I will definitely make some urgent inquiries into this Mr. Jones”, I said. “Indeed, I shall start immediately.”

He looked surprised at my easy compliance but nodded curtly and left without any thanks. Not that I expected any.

“Do you think that this Mr. Jones _is_ up to something?” John asked.

“Yes”, I said. “And I begin to see what. He may turn out to be one of our most cunning adversaries yet.”

He looked at me in surprise.

֍

John set off to post the telegram that I actually wished to send while I went to the post office in Baker Street and dispatched some inconsequential ones that I was fairly sure would bring little in the way or response. I distrusted my brother too much not to expect him to have me followed and to make sure I was doing as I had, as he would have been suspicious of my easy compliance to his request. Rightly so – but he would find that out too late to be of any use.

Sure enough Miss Bradbury replied to John's message shortly after luncheon. It was regrettably what I had expected, and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes at the sad predictability of governments of any party. I dispatched a telegram to Bacchus that said that I would have something for him by early on Sunday morning and he might call round then. And there was no need for someone in the vicinity to remark that certain consulting detectives were not really morning people. I was not that bad of a morning.

Someone who is going to regret it has just reminded me of the time I managed to scare myself one morning by looking in the mirror B.C. (Before Coffee). He will pay for that!

֍

Bacchus arrived at nine o'clock on the Sabbath (he had obviously been waiting outside beforehand but after that incident when Mrs. Harvelle had brought her rifle out again he knew not to knock before his time). He came up the stairs clearly seething and sat down heavily in the fireside chair before scowling at us both.

“This is a bloody disaster!” he fumed.

I suppose that his anger was understandable for once. The Sunday newspapers from the _'Times'_ downwards were all leading with the discovery that the British government had been involved in a secret plan to grant the Falkland Islanders independence, and then to raise only the mildest of protests when the Argentinians invaded and seized them before the inexplicably delayed British military support arrived. It was a political embarrassment of the first order for Lord Salisbury's minority Conservative and Unionist government which would be badly shaken as a result.

“The government are pinning the whole blame on my department, would you believe it?” Bacchus fumed.

“Yes, it is hardly as if _you_ would ever do such a devious and underhand thing like that”, I said mildly. John snorted for some reason and Bacchus glared at him too.

“I do not know how they got wind of this”, he growled. “There were no official records; I was sure of that.”

“Would you like to know?” I asked mildly.

He stared at me in shock.

“You did not!” he protested. “Sherlock!”

“I find the government's actions in this matter deplorable”, I said firmly. “There may not be many people living on those windblown and distant islands but they are as much British citizens as someone living on the Isle of Wight. The government had no right to plot to sell them down the river, as the saying goes. But no, Bacchus, I was not the author of your discomfiture this time. Would you like to meet the gentleman who was?”

He nodded dumbly. I smiled and walked across to John's bedroom door.

“Please to come through”, I said.

A short and generally unprepossessing gentleman entered the room. He was dark-haired, in his early forties and appeared very much the atypical bank clerk. But appearances were in this case very much deceptive.

“You!” my brother exclaimed in horror. I caught John hiding a grin in his writings.

“Bacchus, meet Mr. Pheidippides Jones”, I said. “Aptly named for the ancient marathon runner as he has crossed some eight thousand miles of ocean to totally and thoroughly outplay you at every turn.”

“What do you mean?” my brother demanded. 

“The Falkland Islands Company rightly distrusted the British government, no matter what party was nominally in charge of it”, I said. “So they established certain what are called 'plants', people who would alert them of any dark dealings afoot. Not of course in London; they knew the likes of you too well to attempt such a thing let alone the problems over distance. No, they planted their agents much closer to home in the Argentinian government where the greater degree of chaos and disorganization made avoiding detection much easier. And when these agents became aware of your plans to betray them, they immediately dispatched Mr. Jones here to stop you.”

“And how was he going to do that?” my brother sneered.

I shook my head at him.

“For someone who claims to be so intelligent you really are stupid at times, Bacchus”, I said. “After this storm of publicity no government would _dare_ to have even the smallest agreement with Argentina for fears of being branded traitors. This gentleman has totally outplayed you and I doff my hat to him. You have lost.”

My brother glared angrily at Mr. Jones.

“We will alert the Argentinians”, he said coldly, “and I am sure that they will flush out your so-called agents soon enough.”

“You will do no such thing”, Mr. Jones said equably.

I do not know how he managed it but despite his tatterdemalion appearance there was a note of absolute certainty in his voice. Even my brother looked surprised at it.

“And how do you intend to stop me, _sir?”_ he asked haughtily.

Mr. Jones sighed.

“We did not undertake this scheme without covering _every_ eventuality”, he said calmly. “Even your oleaginous and unpleasant self, Mr. Bacchus Holmes. You may indeed choose to leave here and go tattle to our neighbours back home, but if you do then please be assured that within a very few days there will be a further major government scandal to light up the London papers' front pages. It will concern a house in a rather questionable part of Kensington, a lady of more than moderate social standing related to your dear mother, a baby – _and you!”_

His quarry went deathly pale, although he managed to glare at John who was muttering 'Kensington, questionable, mother, lounge-lizard, baby...'. Bacchus spared us all one last hateful glance and left in a flurry of bad cologne. John looked across at our more welcome guest.

“Can we keep him?” he asked eagerly.

I shook my head at him. He was so bad!

֍

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> † The derivation is uncertain but the rhyme may indeed refer to that dreadful monarch. He was often short of money, his first queen was Catherine of Aragon who did like bread and honey, and he dumped her for the maid Anne Boleyn who later had her nose and head pecked off by a blackbird (Tudor slang for an executioner). It was custom at the time for banquets to have huge pies with live birds inside them which would then fly out when it was cut open. Unfortunately all that pastry was wasted because the birds had... yeah.  
> ‡ Sadly it was a series of weak moves by successive British governments in the 1970s and early 1980s that led in 1982 to the Argentinian assault on the Falklands and their brief occupation of the islands before they were turfed out. Yet even today there are some who say that this democracy thing is all very well but do we really need to give it to people who might go and do all sorts of deplorable things with it?


End file.
